


01

by AelEkaya



Series: Falling [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Land of Wrath and Angels, lowaa angels, partial posession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelEkaya/pseuds/AelEkaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels whisper to you all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	01

You are not broken nor depressed after the game finally ends. You get to live again and it makes you glad.  
There is not a sign of the damage you took in the game, nor any trace of Sollux in you.

Yes, you have all of your memories. You also have a foggy recollection of Sollux's life. You don't really want to remember that.

You are whole, sane, healthy. The angels still sing in your mind, though.

\---

You settle into your new life in this hybrid world - you recognize bits of Alternia (home), are astonished and confused by pieces of the  
human world, and you can't really believe how similar, yet different Beforus is. 

You get a job, a small, small flat (not home). You miss Alternia. You think you miss Sgrub.

You never log onto Trollian again after you finally are able to afford a husktop.  
It's not a matter of fear as much as lack of desire to talk to any of them. 

They were your friends before the game, and your teammates in the game, but now they are part of life you will gladly leave behind.

No one finds you. You don't regret it.

\---

Humanity has many religions and many gods. Trollkind still worships horrorterrors and the singular god which they can't really   
describe.

Humanity has angels that are soft, beautiful and their angels don't speak to you of their lord, or of destruction. You like those angels   
much more than yours.

The priests of those angels reject you for your horns, and fins, and grey skin. You are an abomination in their eyes and they call you a   
devil. You never visit their temples again, but you still study their world and their scripture. 

You see Alternia in their holy books.

There's a bitter resentment brewing in your gut when you find out that humanity's angels are as terrifying as your own.

_the angels whisper to you all the time_

\---

You work in a small bookshop that specializes in old prints.  
The pay is barely enough to cover all your expenses and doesn't allow for any luxuries but you manage. You like your job.

You find a second job on weekends in a coffee shop.  
You are able to afford to save money for official education this joint world demands.

\---

You never notice the time flow until you look into the mirror one day, when getting ready for your job, and the change hits you like a   
sledgehammer.

Gone is all the softness of a wiggler, the darkness of iris, the soft gray of your skin.  
Your face is sharp, almost gaunt with how little food you are able to afford, your skin dark with adult tint, your eyes bright - the violet   
shining like amethyst.

The stripe in your hair is still a vivid shock of purple against the black and your hair is so much longer now, falling in soft curls around   
your face, twisting around your much larger, sharper horns, curling softly against your neck and catching on the blunt edges of your   
fins.

You lick your lips and trace the delicate brighter points covering your nose and cheeks, peppering your neck and gills. Were you in the   
dark, they would glow.

Somewhere along the way you missed what was left of your childhood. You don't think you regret it.

\---

Your peace doesn't last too long after that.

First there's Karkat in your coffeeshop. You recognize him immediately and before he can recognize you, you go to the back of the shop,   
claiming you go on a break.

Your hands shake for a long time after he leaves. You realize you were escaping all that time.  
Sleep doesn't come easily that night.

\---

The second person you encounter is the annoying false witch human you remember as Rose Lalonde.  
She isn't changed much, sans few unimportant details. Still as deathly pale and as knife-sharp as ever.  
You don't even pretend to not know who she is. 

Somehow she manages to get your mobile number and address and asks if you are free on Sunday evening. You just nod.

\---

She brings a small box full of sweet, expensive cupcakes.   
You serve some tea (cheap, black, simple glass cups). You sit for a longer moment in silence, sipping on the tea, the cupcakes sitting   
innocently on the biggest plate you had.

It feels like a slap when she starts talking about others. Each time she opens her mouth to drop another piece of information about your   
(back then) friends, you tense in expectation of finding out how relieved they were (are) that you are gone.

Her voice is calm and melodious, soft. Soothing.  
You almost don't notice when you start crying quietly, your face pressed into her shoulder (she smells of sea and of rot, the stench of   
death engulfing the whole of her and hiding beneath flowery perfume).   
Rose strokes your back slowly and she never stops talking about everyone you left behind.  
She never utters a word about how they feel about you. Never.

\---

Along the sweeps you pick up a new hobby - art.

You sculpt and draw. The angels in the back of your mind croon appreciatively when they recognize themselves in the twisting, liquid   
lines of your work. You hear the flutter of their feathers and the shrieks and the white light that scorched your retinas with it's intensity,   
white sky full of angels, shimmering and silent as they dive down to kill you.

The spell breaks when you remember the pain of a thousand shark's teeth piercing your flesh and smell the burnt skin. 

The angels sing, their choir chanting 'prince, prince' in a thousand voices.   
You breathe slowly, open your eyes and stare at the open maw of the angel before you, it's clay fangs sharp and long.

\---

Apparently Lalonde never bothered to correct anyone in their assumption that you were long dead.

You can only stand there and stare at the white, white winter sky, darkened with a murder of crows, as Karkat holds you tightly enough   
to actually hurt, and he doesn't speak a word.

You don't hug back.

He doesn't scream. Doesn't let go. Doesn't move. Doesn't say anything when you push him away softly and lead him back to your tiny,   
tiny flat (not home).

He sits on the couch as you gather all the books and papers strewn around your only room and put them together on the big table you   
use as a desk.

You can see him eying the newest sculpture you're working on (another angel, this one half melted, the skull bare of flesh and wings   
stripped almost entirely of feathers), he examines the drawings and notes pinned to the walls, bits of bleak, yellow tapestry visible   
between sheets of paper. 

You serve him tea without asking any questions (cheap, black - you like it enough).

The silence hangs heavy between the two of you, and you just can't be bothered to say anything. You finger your cup (white with a   
delicate pattern of bones along its rim - a gift from Rose) and don't look at him. 

'I...' he starts and stops. Karkat takes a deep breath and looks up at you, his eyes ruby-red and beautiful. Dulled with pain. Shiny with   
unshod tears. 'Why, Eridan?'

You appreciate how quiet his voice is. It helps to keep the ever-present headache (ever-present since the angels took your left eye,   
leaving it crystal white and blind) at bay.

You have no answer for him and you make no sign of having heard him. Another sip of tea.

'We all thought you died soon after the game. You never contacted anyone and... Why?' he sounds tired. The time took it's toll on him   
and his hands are rough-skinned and scarred, his face sharp and eyes dark wih something you can't pinpoint. 'What happened to you?'

There are no answers you can give him.  
Why. You don't know 'why'.

He leaves soon enough.

\---

Angels take your other eye and your hearing. You are left blind, deaf. Crippled.  
Caged in your flat (not home).

You don't know when comes the end.

_The skies are white and the light burns your eyes, the still air burns your lungs, the cold marble stings your hands._

_You hear the flutter of a thousand angel wings and you scream, and scream, and scream, and you wake up._

\---

Rose visits you often enough, occasionally you will spot another from your group in the city but they never recognize you (they pretend   
they don't see you). You don't mind your existence. 

The angels sing and sing and never really leave.


End file.
